Maryanne’s blindness unnerved most servants. Most governesses had no idea how to communicate with the girl or how to deal with her tantrums and frustration.
But Miss Winsome did. She had taken those trials in stride. And in only a month had made remarkable progress with Maryanne.
“Even in gentlemen’s clothing,” he said softly, “you are still extraordinarily beautiful.”
She did an admirable job of looking repressive at his compliment, but she was on his lap, and he felt things she didn’t even know she had to hide. Little squirms and twitches.
“I suspect you would say something flattering even if I’d appeared in a sack, Your Grace.”
“You could make a sack seductive, Miss Winsome.” He let his breath brush her ear. Her answering shiver went through her, down to her derriere, which quivered on his thighs.
“In gaming hells,” he continued, “it is customary for a man to have his female companion seated on his lap.”
“I do appreciate your help, Your Grace, but I am not attending this place as your particular female companion.”
“So that’s your plan with your disguise. Not just to protect your identity, but to keep me to my vow of allowing you to select the pace of your seduction. I can’t sit you on my lap when you’re dressed as a man. You are a very worthy opponent, Miss Winsome.”
“Do you consider your mistresses as opponents?”
He rubbed his jaw. “I wouldn’t have said so, before meeting you, angel. But now that I look back, I suppose I have. Before you, it always has been easy.”
“Are you annoyed that I am not making it easy?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “No, I admire it about you, just as I admire your clever wits. I promised to take my time, and I always honor my word. But if we’re having this much fun before we’re even in bed, imagine, my sweet, how superb the sex will be.”
Those words echoed in Helena’s head at the same frantic rate as her breathing. One quick breath in: how superb the . . . One desperate breath out: sex will be.
She had flung herself from his lap across the carriage to the opposite seat.
It hadn’t been fear that sent her leaping across the carriage. It had been panic . Margaret had told her, miserably, how physical desire had made her lose all good sense. It had been lust—powerful, overwhelming lust—that had got Margaret in such trouble, that had cost her half sister her life.
And Helena had felt a dizzying spurt of it when Greybrooke had said those words.
She didn’t know what to do. She was supposed to become his mistress without knowing what he meant by “his terms.” And deep in her heart, she didn’t want to be . . . ruined.
The carriage stopped. The duke gracefully jumped down from the vehicle to the sidewalk in front of the gaming hell. She waited for the footman to lower the steps, then hastened down and joined Greybrooke. As she reached his side, his posture changed. He leaned back slightly, his stance more aggressive. He was standing with her as if she really was a male. He exuded power and sensuality as he did. As a female, she was overwhelmed with awareness of him.
“Black’s is the best gaming hell in London,” he drawled.
She looked up. The tall town house almost disappeared into the night. Its exterior was simple. Closed drapes covered the windows. The address hardly looked elegant and sumptuous. But carriages with beautiful crests lined the street in a parade of obvious wealth—wealth about to be removed. “Best from whose point of view?” she asked wryly.
He inclined his head. “Point taken, Miss Winsome.” He strode up the front steps.
Panic flared, and she chased him to the front door. He knocked, and she whispered fiercely, “You can’t call me that here.”
He appraised her, brow quirked. “All right. I’ll think of something else.”
“ You will? Shouldn’t I be the one to choose my assumed name?”
“My dear, I’m the one with the experience in wicked
But Miss Winsome did. She had taken those trials in stride. And in only a month had made remarkable progress with Maryanne.
“Even in gentlemen’s clothing,” he said softly, “you are still extraordinarily beautiful.”
She did an admirable job of looking repressive at his compliment, but she was on his lap, and he felt things she didn’t even know she had to hide. Little squirms and twitches.
“I suspect you would say something flattering even if I’d appeared in a sack, Your Grace.”
“You could make a sack seductive, Miss Winsome.” He let his breath brush her ear. Her answering shiver went through her, down to her derriere, which quivered on his thighs.
“In gaming hells,” he continued, “it is customary for a man to have his female companion seated on his lap.”
“I do appreciate your help, Your Grace, but I am not attending this place as your particular female companion.”
“So that’s your plan with your disguise. Not just to protect your identity, but to keep me to my vow of allowing you to select the pace of your seduction. I can’t sit you on my lap when you’re dressed as a man. You are a very worthy opponent, Miss Winsome.”
“Do you consider your mistresses as opponents?”
He rubbed his jaw. “I wouldn’t have said so, before meeting you, angel. But now that I look back, I suppose I have. Before you, it always has been easy.”
“Are you annoyed that I am not making it easy?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “No, I admire it about you, just as I admire your clever wits. I promised to take my time, and I always honor my word. But if we’re having this much fun before we’re even in bed, imagine, my sweet, how superb the sex will be.”
Those words echoed in Helena’s head at the same frantic rate as her breathing. One quick breath in: how superb the . . . One desperate breath out: sex will be.
She had flung herself from his lap across the carriage to the opposite seat.
It hadn’t been fear that sent her leaping across the carriage. It had been panic . Margaret had told her, miserably, how physical desire had made her lose all good sense. It had been lust—powerful, overwhelming lust—that had got Margaret in such trouble, that had cost her half sister her life.
And Helena had felt a dizzying spurt of it when Greybrooke had said those words.
She didn’t know what to do. She was supposed to become his mistress without knowing what he meant by “his terms.” And deep in her heart, she didn’t want to be . . . ruined.
The carriage stopped. The duke gracefully jumped down from the vehicle to the sidewalk in front of the gaming hell. She waited for the footman to lower the steps, then hastened down and joined Greybrooke. As she reached his side, his posture changed. He leaned back slightly, his stance more aggressive. He was standing with her as if she really was a male. He exuded power and sensuality as he did. As a female, she was overwhelmed with awareness of him.
“Black’s is the best gaming hell in London,” he drawled.
She looked up. The tall town house almost disappeared into the night. Its exterior was simple. Closed drapes covered the windows. The address hardly looked elegant and sumptuous. But carriages with beautiful crests lined the street in a parade of obvious wealth—wealth about to be removed. “Best from whose point of view?” she asked wryly.
He inclined his head. “Point taken, Miss Winsome.” He strode up the front steps.
Panic flared, and she chased him to the front door. He knocked, and she whispered fiercely, “You can’t call me that here.”
He appraised her, brow quirked. “All right. I’ll think of something else.”
“ You will? Shouldn’t I be the one to choose my assumed name?”
“My dear, I’m the one with the experience in wicked
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